


The sick detective

by JAKishu



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Big Brother Mycroft, Crime Scene, Holding Hands, John helps, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mind Palace, OD, Overdose, Promise, Rain, Sherlock sick, Sherlock´s transport, Sickfic, Storm - Freeform, Young Sherlock, john doctor, mention of sherlock duing drugs, parenting lestrade, sherlock and drugs, wet clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-18
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-15 14:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11233191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JAKishu/pseuds/JAKishu
Summary: Sherlock ignores his transport once again and gets really sick collapsing at a crime scene. John is there to take care of him.





	1. Stormy night

John Watson former soldier and now blogger to a mad man was enjoying his quiet evening. The days where he could stay at home without the detective and his craziness were rare and he used them for all the things he couldn't do when Sherlock was next to him, especially when the detective was bored. He couldn't hear his own thoughts when he was bored. But not today. Sherlock was out in the storm doing whatever he found was justified while observing a suspect. Not a real one. Sherlock had the assumption that the owner of a fish restaurant was involved in a worldwide smuggling ring.

John, being a sane man, had told Sherlock he would stay at home. Not even the detective would get him to go out in the storm to watch innocent people enjoying their life inside their warm homes.

That meant John had the living room for his own use without Sherlock complaining about the TV or criticizing the fictional characters in the books John read. Not that he wished for Sherlock to stay away more often. He would get lonely and bored himself without him but once or twice a month was enough for John to relax. And the observation Sherlock was doing wasn't dangerous. He would have never let him go alone if there was even a slight chance that he could get hurt.

John called it an early night and went to bed before midnight. Laying down he fell asleep in seconds under his warm and soft blanket, ignoring the noises of the rain drumming at his window and the wind howling around the house not knowing that his friend was freezing and shivering in a dark alley while watching his target.

* * *

Sherlock gave up after nothing had happened until 4 a.m. His suspect had gone to sleep around one and hadn't got up anymore since then. No lights inside, no one came, no one left. He was cold and wet and dreaming of hot tea and his bed and a hot shower. Maybe not in that particular order.

There was no cab around and he had to walk back to Baker Street, his wet clothes glued to his icy skin. He had stopped feeling the cold hours back. The rain that fell on his head now was ignored as his hair was already soaking wet it couldn't get wetter even if he were to jump into the Thames.

Arriving back home, Sherlock was tired more than ever before at least he felt like that. Pushing his tired body up the stairs all thoughts about shower, tea or bed were gone. To walk through the door and collapse on the sofa was all Sherlock was able to do. Still in his soaked clothes and wet hair he fall asleep not caring about a thing except sleeping.

* * *

John woke up quite early because of his phone ringing. Getting out of his warm bed he answered the call without looking at the callers ID.

"Hallo, John Watson speaking." His eyes were dazzled from the early sunshine; he had to close his eyes for a few seconds.

"Morning John, it's Greg. Is Sherlock with you? I have been trying to reach him for over an hour." Greg sounded tired; John was aware he had been involved in much work this week and a new crime scene was nothing that helped a DI of Scotland Yard with getting rid of his workload.

"He was out yesterday. Wait a second I will check on him. Probably forgot to charge his phone. I will ring you back in a minute." John hung up and walked down the stairs not expecting Sherlock to be somewhere else than in his room. A look in his bedroom first showed John that Sherlock had never made it to bed last night. Wondering where his friend could be he called him while walking back into the kitchen.

Sherlock's phone rang and John could hear it in the living room. As he walked around the corner he found the man sleeping on the sofa the phone still in his pockets. John hung up and walked over to him. Coming closer he saw the sweat drops on Sherlock's face. He was still wearing his coat, one side of it hung on the floor and he saw a wet puddle where water must have dropped to the floor.

Frowning at the thought of Sherlock freezing the whole night in the storm and then sleeping in wet clothes John closed the gap between him and Sherlock in close to a second. One hand on his still damp shoulder, he shook him lightly.

"Sherlock, wake up." Nothing happened. "Sherlock?" A bit louder. As John lay his hand on Sherlock's forehead he could feel the heat before he even touched the skin. "Shit." Cursing at his friend's stupidity and ignorance he called him again saying the only thing that could wake him up.

"Sherlock, Lestrade called. He has a case for you. Sherlock! Case! Crime scene! Wake up." And finally he moved. He opened one eye than the next and then closed them again. A moaning sound came out of the man and he turned away from the light. John concluded: fever and headache, 'great'.


	2. Ignoring the obvious

"What did you say about a case?" Sherlock asked a bit slurry as if he were drunk or half sleeping. John saw his struggle to sort out his current situation, the photophobia and the pain. He had seen many patients with a sort of strange relationship with their body functions but never a more complicated and almost hopeless case than Sherlock.

It looked like Sherlock couldn't even understand that the pain he was feeling came from an illness or that he was experiencing a headache. John also thought that it had in no way occurred to the detective that going to bed with wet clothes would make him sick. Rolling his eyes John helped Sherlock up as he seemed not to be able to manage it by himself.

"No case Sherlock, you are sick. I will call Greg and tell him you can't come but first I will bring you to bed. You will take some medicine for your fever and hopefully tomorrow everything will be better." There was a small chance that Sherlock would listen, a very small chance.

…No luck.

"What are you talking about, John?  I'm fine. We are going to the crime scene. There is a case, I am not going to miss it. The game is on." Where Sherlock suddenly found that energy, John couldn't tell but he got up from the sofa and walked to the bathroom to change his clothes. Walking was the wrong word in this case, it was more a wobbling.

"I will later say 'I told you'. You will make yourself sicker and I will be the one who has to take care of you." It was no use: when Sherlock got something on his mind, his 'transport' wouldn't stop him, especially not for a case.

* * *

Sherlock's eyes couldn't focus properly, there was a pressure on or inside his head that made thinking a hard and painful process. He would rest until they arrived at the crime scene. His transport should be ready then. Maybe he was just tired. If he were to count the hours he had slept in the last weeks he wouldn't need many fingers for that calculation. After the case he would have a good night's sleep and everything would be fine. He wasn't sick; how could John think he was sick? It was ridiculous.

Ignoring the pain and the overall heaviness of his body Sherlock got dressed, asked Lestrade for the address and headed downstairs to catch a cab, followed by John. There was still an icy wind outside but the rain had finally stopped.

* * *

Inside the cab John watched his friend close his eyes and his head fall slowly against the cold window. It was a stupid idea to go outside or to move at all but at least he was at Sherlock's side now. If John had locked the detective in his room, he would have run off alone, which would have been a worse situation than the current one.

As the cab arrived at the crime scene Sherlock was sleeping again. John had to shake him to get his attention. "We can go home if you don't feel up to it. Greg will understand it." Sherlock's fever must have risen from when he had found him on the sofa. The meaning of John's words needed an alarming long time to get to Sherlock.

"Why shouldn't I be able to do my job? I'm fine, John. Stop fussing." And with that Sherlock left the cab and John behind to pay. Which John did very quickly so as to be near to his sick friend in case something happens.

* * *

Lestrade didn't need to be a doctor to see that Sherlock wasn't well. The detective was walking unsteadily and slowly, his skin color wasn't the best either and the feverish shining eyes told him enough for him to regret having sent him the address.  John stuck to him much closer than usual, which was another thing that told everything about Sherlock's condition.

"Sherlock, if you are sick you have to stay at home and rest. You are not supposed to run around London to catch criminals. I will handle it alone. Go home and let John help you." He could see how his words met a concrete wall.

"I'm fine. Could you all stop this and show me the body?" Sherlock sounded tired and in pain. John next to him shook his head not understanding. It wasn't the first time he had tried to stop Sherlock today. There was no point. It was a waste of energy. Lestrade turned with a light shake of his head which let Sherlock roll his eyes followed by a hissed pained noise. The body was not far away and the stubborn detective wouldn't have to walk fast. Hopefully it was something really easy. That John could bring Sherlock home very quickly.


	3. Falling into blackness

The crime scene wasn't one of the more complex ones but Sherlock's brain wasn't able to focus properly on the body. Black haze floating over his sight made him wobbly. He couldn't concentrate. John kneeled next to the body following Sherlock's request. Sherlock wasn't sure he would be able to get up again. His body was too heavy. 'You are just tired, ignore it. Solve the case and then home and bed.' His plan for the next hour, maybe it would work.

Or not.

The dizziness came back fast and crushed Sherlock under its weight. Without wanting to or the opportunity to stop it, he blacked out. The world was gone and with it, John, Lestrade, the crime scene and the hope he could ignore his transport like he always did.

* * *

John who was more focused on Sherlock than on the body saw the exact moment Sherlock's body and mind shut down. The man just sunk into himself and would have landed hard on the ground if John hadn't caught him. He lowered the detective slowly to the ground. That was not the worst case but certainly one of the scenarios the doctor would have liked to prevent.

Laying his jacket under Sherlock's head he started his examination. Lestrade was behind him looking very worried. "Should I call an ambulance?" He asked but John shook his head. It wasn't that bad. He felt Sherlock's feverish hot skin under his hand and the fast pulse. Sherlock's stupid idea to run to a crime scene while already ill had made the fever worse. He could tell that without closer measurements. Sherlock was burning up. It could become dangerous quickly, so best thing to do now was to wake him and bring him home so he could finally take same medicine and rest.

"Sherlock can you wake up for me? We are going home. You can choose between walking with my help or being carried like a child." Not nice but Sherlock would better react to words like this. If he reacted at all.

* * *

Something was nagging him; it disturbed his peace and quiet. Whatever it was Sherlock had to open his eyes to get rid of it. John's worried face that also looked a bit angry was close to his own face. Lestrade's too, a bit further but still very close. His head hurt, really hurt and his whole body was made of jelly.

"Sherlock get up, I will help you. You have to get some rest before your fever goes up even more and you earn yourself a lovely stay in a hospital." Hospital was a word he hated, a place he hated even more and John knew it. It meant he has to get up to…. Wait.

"What is with the crime scene?" He was horrified as to how weak his voice sounded even to him. Not more than a small whisper. John's rolled his eyes and lifted him up. He couldn't fight, the only thing he could do was follow John's directions that lead them both to a cab.

"Sure you can manage him up the stairs? I could drive you back and help you." Lestrade offered.

"No, but thanks. We will manage. You have a crime to solve. I will call you when he is better or if we need help." The last part came out quickly as Lestrade started to open his mouth again. Sherlock watched their interaction. Both were worried, John was also angry and the other officers was nowhere to seen. Maybe they had been sent away.

John jumped into the cab and told the driver the address. Before the car started Sherlock fell back into darkness. He didn't notice that his seat belt wasn't locked and he fell softly into his friend's lap. He was asleep a second later.

* * *

John was a bit surprised when Sherlock's head landed in his lap but after confirming that he was just sleeping again and he had not passed out, he didn't really mind. Patting his sweaty hair was somehow nice and let some of his the anger flow away. Sherlock was stubborn, ignorant and sometimes just stupid. He pushed himself and his body to its limits and didn't understand it when his 'transport' shut down. It was more than a bit worrying and the question was how he had survived before John had come into his life. It had probably been Mycroft's and Greg's job to look after him.

"Yes, Sherlock, you are a child sometimes, need people who tell you when to eat, when to sleep or that you are sick." He mumbled into the sleeping man's ear.

Reaching Baker Street was a relief and a new challenge because Sherlock didn't look like he would get up anytime soon and help with walking up the stairs. Sighing and already accepting his fate, John lifted Sherlock's head and laid him down carefully. He paid the cabbie and walked up to the door ringing the bell.

In the time Mrs. Hudson needed to answer the door John was back at the cab, carrying Sherlock out of the car and up to the front door.

"John, what happened to him?" She looked more worried than a landlady should but that is something he would never say out loud.

"He is sick, collapsed at the crime scene and is sleeping now, could you be so kind and open the door for me, my hands are full." The last part was a bit unnecessary but he would prefer to hurry up and go inside. It was cold and although Sherlock was really skinny it was still the body of a grown and tall man and that was heavy.

Arriving upstairs and in Sherlock's bedroom John had nearly let him fall and was glad to let his sick friend softly down on his bed. Sherlock hadn't moved once while being carried by John. Another sign of this being a bit not good.

"Mrs. Hudson could you bring me my medical bag, water and a towel, please?" She ran up the stairs to get the things and John started to undress Sherlock. Shoes and socks first followed by coat, scarf, trousers, jacket and shirt. Only leaving his pants John redressed him with pajama trousers and a t-shirt. Not the easiest task but he was finished and had covered Sherlock with his blanket before Mrs. Hudson came back.


	4. Medicine and drugs are not the same

First thing was to wake Sherlock up so John could get some medicine into him. Taking one of the towels Mrs. Hudson had brought he dried the face from the cold sweat and took a fever thermometer to find out exactly how bad it was. Sherlock didn't protest at the thermometer in his mouth and the reading said 39.8 °C (104 °F).

"A bit not good Sherlock. You have to wake up and take your medicine and drink something. We need to get your fever down." There was at first no movement but after John started shaking the detective's shoulder a bit, tired eyes wandered confused trough the room. Not really focusing on John or anything else.

* * *

Something was definitely wrong. The world felt wrong, even breathing was strange and not like it usually was. Everything was wrong. His eyes couldn't focus, he felt hot and cold at the same time. 'Was this even possible?' A bit like when he came down from being high. But he was not high. There was no way he was going to break that promise. No more drugs. But why was the world shifting and blurry and why did his body feel like someone hat put it on an icy fire?

There was someone with him in the room. Another person, breathing the same air and touching him. 'Why was this person touching him?' He didn't like being touched.

The person tried to give him something but he didn't want drugs. He had promised this a long time ago. No more drugs. Never ever again. There was no way he would take them again. It had been far too much work to get rid of the addiction and it was still hard work to stay clean. No drugs. 'Who ever this was, he wouldn't take them.'

* * *

John could see that Sherlock was more than a bit confused, he wasn't even sure he was recognizing him. The fever shiny eyes couldn't focus and he drifted away every few seconds.

"Sherlock you have to take these." He held Sherlock's body up with one hand while holding in the other one a pill against the fever. The glass of water at close reach.

"...no. Don't... want... Promised. No… drugs. …no." Sherlock's weak fight against the medicine had no chance of being successful, he had no strength left to fight John's hand away.

"Sherlock this is medicine, no drugs. You have to take it. It will make you feel better." John wasn't exactly sure what promise Sherlock was talking about but it seemed to be something important to him. His eyes were filled with fear and in his fever-racked mind he probable though John wanted to give him drugs. 'Good to know that Sherlock wouldn't take drugs anymore but right now it was unfortunately not very helpful.'

"Sherlock, it's me. John. You know I would never give you drugs, I don't let you smoke either. Believe me that the pill in my hand is medicine to make you better." Sherlock had his mouth tightly closed and was not listening either because he couldn't or didn't want to. Newly formed sweat appeared on his forehead. This was stressing him out more rather than helping him. John needed a few second of the detective's fully functioning mind.

* * *

'Don't take something or let someone give it to you. It will destroy your hard work. It will break the promise. You don't need it.'

Sherlock tried to concentrate; whatever this person wanted to give him was some kind of pill. For that he had to swallow it. Meaning 'DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH' whatever happens. Even if he or she or it pinched his nose closed to get him to open up his mouth to breathe. Better unconscious then taking the drug.

The world was moving again and he was laid down, at least he thought so. His face suddenly felt warm, then warmer and two hands were cupping his cheeks. Holding his head in place and forcing his eyes to look at the person in front of him.

Warm eyes, worried eyes, kind eyes and very familiar eyes looking at his and for one second, just one Sherlock felt safe in this person's hands.

"Sherlock, you need to take that medicine or I have to bring you to the hospital. I promise you it's not a drug, nothing illegal. It won't break that promise to whomever you have made it to not take drugs anymore , believe me." That was John, he was with him and worried and trying to help. …And he certainly did not want to go to any hospital!

John = safe

No hospital = taking the pill

Sherlock opened his mouth and swallowed the pill with the offered water. After this he did not further bother to listen or do anything.

"Sleep Sherlock, get better."

'Whatever you say John, whatever you say.'

* * *

John sighed as Sherlock drifted off to sleep. There had been only a few seconds of lucidity and recognition that John could use to his advantage to get the medicine into his system. Hopefully it would be better soon. Or he had to think of an alternative plan to get medicine, fluid and everything else that was needed into his friend.

John got up and filled a bowel with water and gathered one of the tea towels. He sat next to Sherlock again dipping the towel into the water, he then rinsed, folded and placed it carefully on Sherlock's forehead to cool the overheated mind down a bit. Should the temperature not sink in the next two hours he would need to give him a bath. He really hoped that could be avoided. It would not be pleasant for either party.

He had managed to get Mrs. Hudson to go downstairs again with the promise to call her if she was needed. He couldn't imagine Sherlock wanting anyone to see him weak and vulnerable.


	5. Promise

_(18 years before)_

"Kid, can you hear me? What did you take? Answer me." The worried voice of Sergeant Greg Lestrade travelled into his mind. The numb remains of his consciousness are blissfully not able to respond to anything outside or inside. His mind just stops working and in its place is pure and wonderful quietness. Something Sherlock had missed his whole life. Peace and quiet in his own head. Stopping every thought, every blink of an idea and all mind-madding deductions. The world wasn't important anymore: it was just him and nothing and nobody else.

 "Wake up! The ambulance is on its way. Don't give up." What did Lestrade mean? He wasn't giving up anything; he was just relaxing a bit in this beautiful emptiness. Could he be so kind and just leave or be quiet?

…Why an ambulance? He was fine. Just relaxing and tired and…

A sudden pain in his right cheek pulled him out of his mind for a few seconds.

"I told you to stay with me. Not to stop breathing. Tell me: what did you take?" Lestrade's eyes were angry and worried at the same time. The ceiling of the old building he had chosen to shoot up was dirty and dump and dull… Sherlock's mind drifted away again until Lestrade's hand met his face in a painful way again.

"…Wha... are... u... doing. Ledme... lone. M fine." His speech was slurry, broken and incomplete. But Sherlock didn't notice the frown on Lestrade's face. He closed his eyes again. Even if dimmed, the light was too much.

"Sherlock, please don't die on me." Why should he die? He didn't want to die, just a little bit of peace for his own mind. He opened his eyes again the same moment as two paramedics entered the room. Lestrade got up and stood back to let them do their work.

"Sir, can you hear me? What's your name?" One of the paramedic asked to him. The older one, married… two, no three children a pet hamster, new… 'Stop, stop stop' Sherlock's mind saw the things again, all this information about people he didn't know and didn't want to know. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to put his hands over his ears to stop the noises but his body was too weak to move. Finally Sherlock understood why Lestrade was worried. He had probably made a mistake in the dosage of the drugs. Sighing he stopped the thrashing and fighting and nearly forgot to breathe but the paramedic had him already loaded into the ambulance and with Lestrade by his side they were on their way to the nearest hospital. His brother was probably already informed and on his way to lecture him again.

Thankfully the dark emptiness of his drug overdose swallowed him a minute later. That also his heart had stopped was an information he got later when he was awake again in his hospital bed.

* * *

"Did you hear me Sherlock? I'm talking to you or were you finally able to destroy your precious mind with the dirt you think you have to take. Answer me Sherlock." Mycroft was angry and very concerned of the life style his brother had chosen. This always lead to a very emotional brother who now had been shouting at Sherlock for ten minutes. But Sherlock lay groggy in the bed just ignoring everything.

Sherlock's head hurt (coming down form drugs and his brother's shouting; annoying), his throat hurt (pumped stomach; not pleasant), his chest hurt (reanimation; not funny) and he was so tired: tired of this constant stream of useless information that was flowing into his mind, of not being able to stop thinking and of his inability to sleep for longer than a few hours every couple of days.

"Mycroft I think that's enough. Why don't you take a walk or do something else. I will stay here with Sherlock. Alright?" Lestrade, good old Lestrade did everything for him. Get rid of his brother, rescue him from himself and sometimes occupied his mind with cold cases he could work on. He was a bit of a life savior. But sometimes Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to be saved.

His brother left the room after intensely eying Lestrade and sighing and left without saying or shouting another word.

"Thank you." Sherlock mumbled very quietly. Loud enough to be heard by Lestrade but not from someone outside this room.

"For what? Saving your life or sending you brother out?" He sounded a bit angry again. Maybe 'thank you' is not the best choice of words in each and every situation; not that he really cared. Better not to say anything. He looked at him and saw his tired eyes in the reflection of Lestrade's own. The policeman's face got softer again.

"You can't do this to yourself, it will destroy you. You don't want to die, right?" He waited for an answer, so Sherlock nodded once. Not sure if this answer was the truth.

"What can I do to change it? How can I help?" Thinking about it, Lestrade was the first person not related to him who not only worried but also offered help. Also he did not talk about 'he was wasting his intellect'. Tightness constricted his heart and his eyes became wet.

"Make it stop, please. Make the noises stop." Lestrade looked confused but not completely overburdened with this request.

"What do you want me to do?" Sherlock thought really hard and long about it and Lestrade patiently waited for him. His brain was slower then normal but still working at light speed. The only times he is close to happy, relaxed and not floated with useless deductions, is when he can work on a case.

"Give me cases, more cold cases and fresh crime scenes. Give me something to work on so I can concentrate on things which are not useless. I will drown without it." He has a maniac look on his face. Desperate to find something to stop his mind from destroying itself.

"I will do that. If it is the only thing that will help you. Under one condition. You need to be clean and you need stay it. No more drugs in any form. Not any to help you think. Not any to sleep. Not any to keep you awake. No drugs under any circumstance. Understood? I am really serious about this, Sherlock. If you need someone to talk, come to me. Or talk to someone else: so it's me, your brother, a friend, a therapist or someone from your homeless network but you have to stay clean. Promise me that and I will do everything I can to get you to crime scenes and cold cases." The look in Lestrade's eyes was honest and truthful, like always. He would probably need help from his brother to get through this but with the cases he would not need the drugs.

"I promise. I will get clean and stay that way." Sherlock had to smile as he shook Lestrade's hand. A smile he had thought he had lost long ago.

The next step was getting clean and easiest way to do that was in a rehab-center. "Can you get my brother back and tell him I want to go to that rehab-clinic he told us about a minute ago? I need to get rid of the stuff in my system to start with the work." Lestrade got up and found Mycroft behind the door probably listening in. He was not even surprised about it. They walked back into Sherlock's room and discussed everything.

Sherlock wasn't really listening. The only thing that he had scribbled onto the door that in his mind palace lead to his addiction was one simple sentence.

'YOU PROMISED IT.'


	6. New morning

Watching his friend finally fall into a peaceful sleep John finally start to relax a bit. Sherlock wasn't getting worse at the moment but his fever was still running high and the medicine should have kicked in half an hour ago. Every time he measured his temperature he waited for Sherlock to move or fight him. But he was too far gone to do anything. Which was helping John in getting a temperature reading but worried him more than it should. In two hours time he would have to wake Sherlock again for the next dosage and make him drink some more. If it didn’t work he would get an IV going to give him fluids.

While thinking about what he would need to do he had time to watch Sherlock sleep. A rare and somehow very beautiful thing to see. It looked like a mask had slipped away from his face. He was relaxed even with the fever. He looked much younger and very vulnerable. The mask he wore every waking moment was his shield, his armor against a world where most people didn't understand him because they didn't want to. Sherlock was special, unique and had to fight to get his place in that world. He was a good person and deserved people making the attempt to understand him.

John wondered what kind of promise it was that kept him clean. It sounded like something Greg would get out of him in exchange for cases. But it sounded so deep and emotional, that it made John think there was more than just cases at stake here.

It was certainly nothing Mycroft could get out of Sherlock. As much as the two brothers loved each other they had a very strange way of showing it. And this promise was something Mycroft Holmes would never get out of Sherlock. Both were totally unable to show their emotions and feelings. Towards something or towards each other.

* * *

Two hours later John moved back to Sherlock's bed. The detective had slept without interruption but now was the time for another round of medicine.

"Sherlock, wake up for me. You need to take your medicine and drink something." Sherlock dead to the world didn't even stir under his words. Shaking his shoulders did the trick again. His eyes opened slowly, confusion and disorientation written all over his face. Medicine and water at the ready he began with the water.

"Sherlock you need to drink this." Helping the detective to sit up a bit he held a glass of water to his lips with his free arm. Slowly Sherlock sipped the cold water. His body heat made John get warm as well and he could feel the sweat-soaked pajama under his fingers. Sherlock emptied nearly half the glass.

"Now take these and drink a bit more. We have to change your clothes or you will get cold in a few minutes." Amazingly cooperative this time Sherlock took the medicine and drank more of the water.

"Sherlock are you with me?" No answer. "Okay we are going to change your clothes now and then you have to drink a bit more for me. Sherlock wasn't helping but not fighting him either. His feverish eyes wondered through the room fixing themselves on John for a bit longer but not really seeing him or understanding what he was doing. More in the line of 'there is someone here, okay' rather than 'my friend is changing my clothes'.

After changing and getting Sherlock back into bed with another glass of water poured into him John got really worried. "Sherlock." He lay a hand on his face. "Can you tell me how you feel? Any pain? Can I bring you something?" Again, no answer. John laid him down again and held his face with both hands. His hands must have felt very cold to Sherlock right now and caused the detective to gain back a bit of awareness.

"Welcome back Sherlock, can you hear me?" Sherlock nodded. "Very good. How do you feel, where is the pain worst?" John waited for Sherlock to think about the question and then check his body to locate the worst of the pain.

"Cold." John waited; that was not really an answer. "Tired." This wasn’t an answer either but it sounded like Sherlock had more pressing things in mind than pain. Meaning the pain couldn’t be that bad.

Translating Sherlock's perception John let go of his face and covered him with the blanket again. "Go back to sleep. You have still a fever." Sherlock was already gone before John had finished the sentence. He must be really tired.

John puts cold compresses on Sherlock's forehead and saw him sink into the cushion apparently more relaxed. But as John started standing to sit back to the chair he had brought in from the living room to watch Sherlock, a hand shot out from under the blanket and caught John's before it was out of reach.

Sherlock was holding John's hand tight and didn't let go of it.

"Do you want me to hold your hand?" No answer, Sherlock was sleeping. "Good than I will hold your hand if it makes you feel better." Smiling a bit to himself John took one of the spare cushions from the bed, placed it on the floor and sat down. Holding his friend's hand and resting his head on the arm he watched him sleep.

Sherlock would be better in the morning, no question. He could feel the fever start to break and with the much needed sleep there was a good chance that he would be complaining about everything again tomorrow. Without intention John closed his eyes and fell asleep, having p to then ignored or not been aware of his own tiredness.

* * *

As he woke up in the early morning hours Sherlock still felt a bit tired but the dizziness and the pressure on his head were gone. He wasn't so cold anymore but his eyelids were still heavy so he decided to go back to sleep. Before he could do so, Sherlock heard the quiet breathing of someone else. Turning his head he came face to face with John sleeping half on his bed with his head on his arm and looking in Sherlock's direction. He looked tired too. As he wanted to lift his hand he noticed John's warm hand around his own.

Getting a spare blanket from the other bedside Sherlock threw it over John without letting go of his hand. After he had made sure that John was covered so he wouldn't get cold or sick himself Sherlock moved to his side to see John better. Smiling he fell asleep again. With his best friend next to him he felt safe and protected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading to the end. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
